


The "How To" Lecture

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Buddy Fiction, Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:37:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Partners are always supposed to have each other’s backs. However, when Neal finds himself in trouble, Peter may not be there for him.</p><p>Set early in the series when the bond between the guys was strong, and before all the drama and angst of a Nazi treasure, Neal’s father, and a dubbed voice confession made us crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The "How To" Lecture

     “Why?” Neal asked plaintively.

     “Why what?” Peter wanted to know.

     “Why can’t I go with you?” Neal thought that this was a legitimate question to ask.

     “Because you weren’t invited,” Peter answered succinctly.

     “Why wasn’t I invited?” Neal was not about to let this slight go.

     Peter thought this was like dealing with a five-year old.

     “Will you stop with all the questions, Neal! In a nutshell, this FBI symposium in Washington is for agents only. Nowhere, and I stress, _nowhere,_ on the invitation did it say to bring your CI as your plus one!”

     “But the theme that you were asked to expound on concerns confidential informants, and since I am _your_ confidential informant, I should be there to represent my unique species.” Neal thought this was perfect logic on his part.

     Peter just rolled his eyes in exasperation. Earlier this week, he had received the invitation from the Bureau. He had felt honored to be designated as one of the keynote speakers at the yearly FBI symposium held in Washington DC. The upper brass had taken note of Peter’s stellar closure statistics and asked that he prepare an address for the event. They even went so far as to define the parameters of his lecture, which they had imperiously entitled: _“How to Handle Your CI with Better Thinking to Get Better Results.”_

Peter thought this was a bit pedantic, but was confident that he could work around that. Of course, being a maverick and hating to kowtow, Peter would speak to that subject, but in his own unique way. Who knows—a few feathers might get ruffled in the process, but Peter intended to tell it like it was, even if it was not what they wanted to hear. Sort of like what he told his CI right now.

     “Neal, the answer is still _no_ ; you are staying behind in New York. Case closed!”

     “Peter, you could make this happen, if you really wanted to, that is. C’mon, Partner, it’s been a long time since I have visited our nation’s capital.”

     Peter snorted, “Yeah, probably the last time that you were there you swapped out those little medals in the Smithsonian for foiled-wrapped chocolates.”

     “Let’s keep on topic, Peter. I’m your asset, and I am the one responsible for those astounding closure rates. Ergo, I would have a lot of insights to offer those FBI drones who need a little inspiration.”

     Peter remained adamant. “No! No! No! I am not taking my ‘ _criminal’_ informant anywhere near any building that will be playing host to a raft of Federal law enforcement officers, or any structures that contain priceless artwork, the Hope Diamond, other assorted precious gems, invaluable artifacts, or even dinosaur bones!”

     “Peter, the term _‘criminal’_ informant is harsh. It denotes a certain biased insensitivity, and I’m pretty sure that it is considered archaic in these enlightened days, not to mention politically incorrect.”

     Peter glared. “I call ‘em as I see ‘em, Buddy!”

     “That’s very petty and disrespectful of you, Peter,” Neal said as he favored his handler with a hurt and disappointed look.

     “Stop pouting, Neal. It surprises me that you would resort to these kind of theatrics. I would think that is beneath you,” Peter taunted.

     “Not if it gets me what I want,” Neal retorted.

     “Not happening, Pal. Jones will be your handler while I’m away, and I’ll expect a good report when I get back.”

     Now it was Neal doing the glaring.

~~~~~~~~~~

     One week later on a Friday morning, Peter was wrapping up last minute details in his office. His bags were packed and in the car, and soon he would be departing on the four and a half hour road trip down Interstate 95. A last chore on his to-do list was to pull Jones in for a little chat. Neal was seated at his desk, seemingly engrossed in something on his computer, but Peter suspected that he was aware of everything going on around him in the bullpen. Without a doubt, he had noted Peter’s two-fingered summons to Jones, and the agent made sure to face away from the glass so that the con man could not read his lips.

     “Jones, take care of Neal while I’m away. Keep him in line, but foremost, keep him safe. I’m depending on you for that. If anything arises out of kilter, phone me immediately and I will be on the first plane or train home. Do not be hesitant to alert me. Neal is more important than any talk that I’m giving at the conference.”

     “Sure, Peter,” Jones promised. “We have a few things on our plate right now, a few feelers out and a couple of meets in the works, but nothing that looks dicey or dangerous. I’ll watch out for Caffrey and I’ll keep you in the loop.”

     “Okay, then,” Peter replied. “But remember—call anytime, day or night, if there’s a problem.”

     As Peter made his way out of the White Collar office, he leaned over Neal’s desk.

     “Be good, Neal. Do not give Jones a hard time. I’ll be back in three days and I’ll expect a glowing report.”

     Neal favored his handler with a cynical look. “If I’m good for my babysitter, will you buy me a toy when you come home, Dad?”

     Peter simply huffed and didn’t deign to answer, proceeding through the glass doors to await the elevator. Neal stuck his head out and added flippantly, “A trip to a museum out of my radius would suffice.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Later that day, after Peter had unpacked his valise in his room at the Watergate Hotel, he attended a meet and greet cocktail reception and dinner in one of the ballrooms. Peter ran into some old acquaintances from Quantico that he hadn’t seen in years. He marveled at how they had aged, but assured himself that he certainly did not look that timeworn. Apparently, many of these colleagues had kept abreast of Peter’s reputation in New York, and most had signed up to attend his talk regarding confidential informants.

     “I gotta say, Peter, that I admire you for sticking your neck out by trusting a CI,” one fellow agent pontificated. “I don’t know if I would have the courage to put my career on the line for a criminal. They’re not like us—they’re a whole different breed of animal.”

     “Yeah,” another chimed in, “that would certainly keep me up at night.”

     Peter awarded both of them a tight smile. “Well, statistics don’t lie. The scenario can work; it just depends on the commitment of the parties involved. I do not intend to sell this idea as an across-the-board panacea to fight crime. Not everyone is cut out for the challenge. So, all I can say is to please draw your own conclusions after my talk.”

     That talk happened the next afternoon. Peter was surprised and pleased with the remarkable turnout. Every seat was taken, and more chairs had to be brought in to accommodate those standing in the rear of the conference room. Peter was seated on a raised platform next to the Washington Bureau Chief who was responsible for pulling the seminar together. The man began the scheduled session promptly by introducing Peter.

     “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce one of our featured speakers today, Special Agent Peter Burke from our New York City’s White Collar Division. Since this lecture hall seems to be filled to over-flowing, I can only assume that many of you are familiar with Agent Burke’s reputation, and have come in the hopes of learning some new tricks of the trade, so to speak. He will be addressing the topic of confidential/criminal informants, and their use as a weapon in our arsenal to fight crime. Hopefully, after his lecture, Agent Burke will stay around for questions, and allow you to pick his brain for tidbits of insight.

     So, let me stop talking now and permit our guest lecturer to begin his talk entitled _“How to Handle Your CI with Better Thinking to Get Better Results.”_

     Peter leaned forward a bit towards the microphone on the desktop and took a deep breath. Scanning the sea of faces before him, he idly wondered just what percentage of them he would be pissing off by the time that he finished. How many were so deeply entrenched in their narrow-mindedness that a stick of dynamite couldn’t dislodge them? Hopefully, there would be a fair representation of those agents who might be willing to really hear his words and afford them some possible credence. Well, as the old Chinese philosopher Lao-tzu once said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

     “Fellow agents, thank you for turning out. It would have been so embarrassing if I was hosting a party and nobody showed up.”

     There were a few smiles and some polite tittering in the audience, but then, ominous, expectant quiet was restored, and Peter began his pitch with a swift uppercut.

     “First, let me say that I take issue with the words of my esteemed colleague. He characterized confidential informants as ‘weapons in our arsenal.’ Along the way, I have heard other metaphors bandied about: CIs are our ‘aces in the hole,’ or ‘the tools in our belt.’ Let us address just one of those characterizations this afternoon.

     A ‘tool’ is an inanimate object that we use to do a job. We pluck it periodically from the shelf in our workshop or our basement, and we utilize it to do only the job for which it was intended. After we are finished with it, we then stick it back in storage. We have no sense of connection to the tool; it simply is something that we use periodically for a task. We realize that it is handy and useful, but we are also aware that it has an eventual shelf life, because, down the road, it may get broken or simply be replaced by another implement that comes on the market. Unless we are pack rats or hoarders, we sporadically clear out our workshops to make room for the next newer and shinier version of the ‘tool.’

     Law enforcement has had this mindset since the first righteous individual pinned on a badge. We are the ‘good guys,’ with an honorable vocation to protect and provide justice. Therefore, we seek to get the most out of our tools to get that job done. Seems easy and straightforward, but sometimes, things unexpectedly go sideways, and the outcomes are not always exactly what we had hoped. When that happens, sometimes our ‘tools’ get discarded in that process—we jettison them or throw them under the bus. After all, these CIs are an expendable commodity. Break one, and eventually, you will get another.

     And let us not forget that our human tools are ‘just criminals.’ They have broken the law, so they are reaping what they deserve. It is not as if they are our equal partners in this arrangement. They haven’t earned the right to that respect. The prevailing attitude is that you can never trust a criminal.

     Now, let’s look at the CI’s mindset. Yes, he or she is getting something out of the arrangement as well. Historically, deals between law enforcement and criminals have been routinely made in interrogation rooms and jail cells across the country. Charges mysteriously get dropped or lessened by district attorneys when whispered words are exchanged. Criminals with a foot in the door of illegal activity wear wires and pass on information so that they can stay out of prison. It is a beneficial covenant between two parties who, under other circumstances, would not be caught dead in the same room together. CIs have no reason to trust us. Why should they trust the very people who could take away their freedom, and who are threatening to lock them up?”

     Peter stopped to sip at a glass of water. It was really just a ploy to gauge the audience’s reaction to his confrontational opening salvo. He saw a lot of dubious or outright closed expressions, but also a lot of puzzled ones. Those were the people that he wanted to reach.

     “Okay, enough of the dark, calumnious statements. I want to make this personal now. My CI, Neal Caffrey, is not a criminal that I threatened to lock up; he is someone whom I actually did lock up. We had a long-standing history. It took me three years to bring him down finally, and I must honestly acknowledge that I believe that he had just tired himself out running from me and let himself be caught. That is a tacit concept between us, and will probably always remain that way. He did his time in federal prison for his crime, at least the crime that I put him in for. With his expertise, he could have waltzed out at any time, something that he proved quite easily after four years.

     Neal Caffrey is extraordinarily brilliant, and just like any other successful criminal informant, he utilizes a unique skill set. He employs ‘out of the box’ thinking, and sometimes I find myself amazed or frantically running to keep up with him, both literally and figuratively. And sometimes, I have to modify the methods that he intends to use to get the job done for me. I have to be his moral compass showing him that the legal way to do things is where true north lies. However, when all is said and done, the heart of the matter is that we work well together, and have done so, almost from the very start.

     Now, let me clarify that we both did not enter into our partnership completely trusting each other. Granted, we shared a grudging respect for the other’s intelligence and tenacity, but developing a sense of faith and fidelity had to be fostered on a day-to-day basis. I had to make him believe that he had value to me personally, and that I was a man of my word. He needed to trust that he would never get burned working for me because I would always have his back. Our closure statistics are not an anomaly. They happened because Neal and I work as a team; we are partners who get the job done and take care of each other while doing so. We keep each other safe.

     Confidential informants make many enemies. On any operation, they are putting their lives on the line. They are like high wire artists—one misstep and they could fall. They have to know that we are their spotters and will catch them if that happens. They have to know that we are committed to their well-being because we care about them as a person, not as just a tool. We have to make that pledge both personal and unshakeable for a true and enduring partnership to evolve. I suppose that you could say that they need to see themselves as part of our family, as valued as a wife, a husband, or a child. If you can make all of that happen, then, ladies and gentleman, you have a tremendous advantage against the forces of evil—an incredible and innovative ‘tool’ in your arsenal.”

     Peter sat back and waited to see the reaction. It was still a mixed bag, but hands were going up sporadically throughout the audience. The Q&A session had begun, with Peter fielding queries left and right. He was pleased that most were non-confrontational, and the discussion was animated and earnest. He was actually enjoying his role as inspirational mentor when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. A quick look at the screen brought him up short. Jones had texted a 911. Excusing himself, he hastily stepped out into the quiet corridor and placed a call to his junior agent.

     “Peter, Neal’s in trouble,” Jones quickly apprised his boss. “We had a meet set up with a possible middleman in the art thefts that we have been investigating. Neal got made during the encounter, and now this really twitchy guy and his equally nervous sidekick are holding Neal hostage. They are demanding free passage out of the city, or they promise that they are going to kill him!”

     “Okay, Jones,” Peter quickly replied. “I’m going to find the fastest way out of Washington. I’ll call you when I get back so that someone can pick me up and get me on site. Just try to keep things from reaching a flash point, and Neal in one piece until I get there.

     Stepping back into the conference room, Peter hurriedly addressed his audience. “Ladies and gentleman, I’m sorry to say that I have to make a hasty exit. I need to practice what I preach. My CI is in danger, and I need to be there to have his back!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter highly doubted that the Bureau would afford him transportation via helicopter, so he did the best that he could. He quickly approached a taxi in front of the hotel and slipped the driver a twenty to get him to Union Station in record time. He just made the high-speed Northeast Regional Acela train that would get him into Penn Station in New York. Traveling at speeds up to 150 mph, he would be arriving in a little over three hours. Peter hoped that Neal could hold on that long. Periodic updates from Jones reassured him that the standoff remained just that. The criminals knew they were surrounded and that Neal was their only prayer to gain freedom. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to squander that valuable bargaining chip.

     As the scenery sped by in a blur outside of the train window, Peter kept a line open to Jones. The situation continued to remain unchanged. The SWAT team was hunkered down in place, and a hostage negotiator had delivered bottles of water and sandwiches to the fugitives. Eventually, the mediator had persuaded them that a helicopter was being readied at nearby Teterboro airport. He then convinced the two men that they just had to be patient while transport could be arranged to get them there.

     As Peter neared New York, he told Jones exactly what he needed—an unmarked armored vehicle, the schematics for the abandoned warehouse where the drama was taking place, and a zip-up flight suit. An escort picked up a determined handler from Penn Station as he stepped from the arriving train, and quickly, with sirens wailing, delivered him to the anxious scene. Jones had everything that Peter requested at the ready.

     “Are you sure about this, Peter?” Jones asked.

     “Yeah, Jones, I am,” Peter answered succinctly.

     They then discussed the plan, and, if Jones had any more qualms about it, he wisely kept them to himself.

     Peter donned the flight suit that had a few adjustments, and climbed into the black, armor-plated Escalade. He made slow progress along the asphalt until he was in front of the warehouse doors. Climbing out of the vehicle, he raised his arms and waited. After a few minutes, one door slid open a few inches on its track. Peter raised his voice a bit, hoping that his words carried across the expanse.

     “Listen up guys, I’m your ticket out of here. I drew the short straw, so I am the one that they sent to collect you, get you to the airport, and buzz you out. I’m just a flyboy—a stick jockey that they grabbed on short notice—not a Fed. I sure as hell ain’t getting no hazard pay for this, so cut me a break, will ya.”

     The door opened a bit wider and a gun protruded from the opening. A voice from the dark interior cautioned, “Then you don’t want to be a hero, Dude, so just come in here nice and easy and keep those hands up.”

     Peter slowly approached and stepped inside. He now saw that both of the occupants were gripping handguns, and one had a forearm wrapped around Neal’s throat with a lethal-looking pistol nestled just above his right ear. Neal gave no indication that he recognized Peter, and the agent had to keep his anger in check. The pair had obviously worked Neal over. There were cuts and bruises on his face, and a trail of dried blood down his shirtfront. Peter noted that his CI kept his left arm nestled in close to his ribs as if splinting them.

     Peter made eye contact with Neal, and could only hope that the con man realized that there was a plan of some sort in the works. Neal was a master of adjusting on the fly, and Peter just hoped that he was up to the task.

     “So, fellas,” Peter began again, “I was told to drive you to Teterboro in that armor-plated car out there. I suppose that you’ll give me a destination when we get to the whirlybird, and then, when you blow this little pop stand and get to where you want to be, you’ll let me and this guy go.”

     “Yeah,” one of the toughs mocked. “Something like that.”

     Peter stared long and hard into Neal’s blue eyes. He could only hope that his partner was picking up on the silent communication. Without breaking that visual contact, Peter suddenly let his own lids drift shut lethargically. When he opened his eyes again, as he had expected, Neal made his own move. Dropping suddenly, all of the con man’s weight went straight down, knocking the thug holding him off-balance. At exactly the same instance, Peter reached behind him to the Velcro holding his own weapon in place and fired. A tiny hole opened up on the forehead of Neal’s captor as he pitched backward. Peter dove for the ground as an explosion was heard. A side wall of the structure had magically disappeared, and SWAT agents in protective gear were suddenly pouring through the opening. They had no reservations about cutting the remaining assailant down in his tracks.

     It was all over in a matter of very tense seconds, and Peter actually crawled towards his CI through a haze of acrid-smelling cordite. Neal initially looked shell-shocked, but Peter’s arm across the young man’s shoulder seemed to ground him in reality.

     Reverting to type, the traumatized con man placed a smirk on his battered face and quipped, “Well, Partner, it took you long enough to get here. It’s all your fault, Peter, for not taking me with you to Washington!”

~~~~~~~~~~

      Peter went to collect his CI at the emergency room of a nearby hospital after he had been examined. He had borrowed Jones’ car since his was still in the garage of the Watergate Hotel in the nation’s capital. The examining physician stated that the patient’s bruises and lacerations would heal in time, as would the fractured ribs. Neal may not be quite his handsome self for a while, but that was just a temporary aberration in the con man’s existence. Neal tottered unsteadily after Peter as they left, having been the recipient of some powerful pain medication.

     “Maybe I should stay with you tonight, Neal,” Peter suggested.

     He had seen his CI stoned out of his mind before when he had been inadvertently drugged, so the rest of the evening could prove to be extremely enlightening or comically entertaining—it was a crapshoot.

     “Nah, I’m fine, just peachy right now thanks to the happy pills,” Neal explained earnestly as he got into the car with some much-needed assisted manipulation by his handler.

     “Neal …… ” Peter tried again.

     “That’s my name, Peter, don’t wear it out. But seriously, Partner, I’ve been worse ……… sooo much worse—allegedly worse—in times gone by. No worries,” the young man concluded as he tried to pat Peter on his arm and missed. Undaunted, he settled for tapping Peter’s thigh as they drove back to Riverside Drive.

     The con man was actually sound asleep when Peter got him home, and had to be continually enticed to climb a never-ending multitude of steps that seemed like Mt. Everest. The agent found that it wasn’t easy being the uncoordinated man’s sherpa. Finally, the CI collapsed onto his bed like a marionette whose strings had been cut, so Peter gave up any hope of an entertaining evening listening to an unfiltered Neal. Instead, he covered a ‘dead to the world’ young man with a quilt and gazed at him fondly.

     “Like I promised Neal, when the chips are down, I’ll always have your back.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The next morning, Neal gingerly climbed out from under the covers and gave Peter a pitiful look as he made his way to the table. Peter joined him for some Italian roast.

     “Are you up to facing the world, Neal?” Peter asked solicitously.

     “Of course, Peter. I can assure you that things look worse than they really are,” Neal answered quickly. It was in the con man’s handbook—never show weakness.

     “Okay, then. Since you claim to be hale and hearty, are you up for a little train ride? I have to return to DC to retrieve my car and my things that are still at the hotel. We could make a day of it and take in some sights like the Hirshhorn Museum or even the Corcoran Gallery—if you think that you are up to it, that is.”

     Even the purple and yellowish-green bruising on his face couldn’t disguise Neal’s obvious pleasure.

     “Lead the way, Partner! I’m right behind you.”


End file.
